


Drop Dead Beautiful

by god_Zilla



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/god_Zilla/pseuds/god_Zilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard is 30 years old and an alcoholic. He threw his life away as a teenager when his brother left him for his fiancée and is left to hermit in his small town. His life is turned, as it was already upside-down, the right way up when he stumbles across the pretty, lifeless face of Frank Iero, caked in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drop Dead Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been temporarily discontinued. xoMarni

CHAPTER 1: Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner

“Safe home, Gee!”

“Alright, Bob!”

Gerard could hear Bob shoving the key in the door and locking up for the night, shuffling off home in the other direction. Gerard was the only other one to trail the streets back home at this time. He was always the last out. He drank the most. Shit, he could probably give Joe, the local family-man-by-day-alcoholic-by-night, a run for his money. In fact, he may well already have proclaimed that title from him.

Day, after wretched day, Gerard Way, 30, would fall out of bed and into his own vomit, wipe it off, and pull out a bottle of liquor. That was breakfast. Lunch: Sleeping on the floor in his front hallway which was littered with empty bottles -once filled with death liquid and pills- and rejected and pathetic attempts at “art”. You might find the odd typical horror movie lying around, the case, trampled flat from drunken stumbling to the kitchen, disc, shattered like its owner’s brain. Dinner was rather exciting. He left the house to walk, or crawl, take what you like, to Bob’s bar for a delicious meal of whiskey and cheap tasteless beer. Dessert, oh, dessert was eventually being kicked out on his ass to go home and collapse before he could start crying or, of course, drink even more.

Bob put up with Gerard when he lazily pushed money towards him, on the other side of the bar to pay for a refill every five fuckin’ minutes. Bob put up with it as much as he possibly could, he didn’t want to, of course he didn’t, he hated the sight of his best friend content only with destroying himself. Yet, he knew that if he didn’t, Gerard would do something drastic before Bob could even name his momma. All he could do was wait until the right moment to kick him out every night- just after it got too much to walk properly, and just before it got enough to send him into cardiac arrest.

Gerard liked Bob. Bob put up with him. Bob was strong. Bob was kind. Bob was a good friend. Whatever “friends” were.

Gerard hiccupped, and giggled at the start he gave from the motion. It was a cold and windy night, he noticed, as he stumbled along the sidewalk that lasted a couple of blocks before it ended at his house. He stretched out his arms and pretended to fly.

That would be a peculiar sight to anyone, a thirty year old pretending to be a bird.

A peculiar sight, indeed. Even for the biggest, introverted, comic-book artist, weirdo, death-obsessed, addict, fag guy in New Jersey.

He huffed out a laugh at the thought. He enjoyed creeping people out. He loved it. Because that was all he was good at. He even did it back when he was sober and when his little brother was by his side.

The bile rose in his throat at the thought of his brother. Michael, little baby Mikey abandoned him for that bitch.

“Married. We’re getting married.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Married. Getting married.”

“Moving away.”

“Together.”

“Gonna travel the world, Gerard.”

“I love her.”

“Only her.”

“Never had anyone just as close.”

Gerard stumbled to the side, his feet dragging him into the park off the side of the path. The words swirled around in front of him. Mikey was standing in front of him screaming the word “married” down at his pathetic brother.

Mikey abandoned him. He chose her over his own brother. His brother who taught him how to walk, his brother who protected him because their mother went out with some friends that month and never came back. Because their father was there in body but not in mind.

Mikey was his brother, his son, and his best friend. His only friend.

Not anymore.

 

The troubling thoughts had the drunkard trip over eventually. He let out a yelp and tumbled to the ground. The grass was cold, but dry. Comfortable. Instead of getting up, he curled into himself, into the shadows of the tree. He was pretty far from the path now, in a more remote area of the park. Just the way he liked it. Maybe he’d sleep here, he thought, as he began to drift off into sleep.

As his breathing deepened, he shuffled a little, his hand brushing up against someone’s chest. Hm. Cold.

Cold?

Chest?

Someone?

Gerard leaped up, his eyes and mouth all forming “o” shapes. He blinked down at where he was lying. Not looking at all. His mind, he noticed, felt clear, the ever-fuzzy feeling now gone. Was this sobriety? He wouldn’t know, he hadn’t experienced it for five years.

He looked around, in the hope nobody had seen him leap from the ground like a someone being plagued by a spirit.

When he was sure nobody had seen him, he crouched down to where he was laying, reaching out to feel around for whatever gave him such a shock. His hand found purchase of clothing and he tugged until something heavy rolled out into the moonlight pooling at the ground.

Shit.

“Shit.” Gerard tried to say, but all that came out was a choked gasp.

He cleared his throat

“fuckshitballsasstits”

Gerard groaned, his skin paling. Did he just- lie down with a- dead body? Oh, God.

Did he just leave it there? Did he call the cops? He had no idea.

He peered at the body, dark hair was covering its face. He reached over and gingerly brushed the damp strands away, not phased from touching a dead body, really, he was a creep, after all.

He pulled his hand away and- oh.

Oh.

The face was very pale, glowing, actually, but not yellowing or purple. He must’ve been killed and dumped here only recently.

Very recently, there weren’t any maggots and he didn’t have that zombie look that Gerard had first expected. And he didn’t smell bad, like, well, like a corpse. He smelled of aftershave, actually, and something metallic.

Blood.

Blood was seeping from the boy’s lips and coating them like some tragic lipstick. He had a nose piercing that looked like it had been shoved deep into his skin, bruising the soft surface. He had a black eye and there were red, black, purple and blue marks littering his stomach where his shirt had ridden up.

He did a mighty fine job of being beaten up, he could still be on the cover of male model’s magazine.

Shut the fuck up, Gerard.

He- should he tell someone? No, they’d think he did it. Then they’d bury him. They couldn’t do that. This face was too, young and pure and beautiful and something else that Gerard couldn’t quite pinpoint.

What did Gerard do about the situation? He did what any gentleman would do. He took him home.

With effort, of course, carrying a body half-a-mile home isn’t exactly easy. Okay, he was pretty short but Gerard would still have a pain in his neck from the weight on his shoulder.

He ambled up the drive way, forcing his door open and scuttling into the living room, laying the body down on the couch. He looked around. This place was a fucking mess. He should have cleaned up. Not like he knew he had guests.

He sat down in the armchair next to him and switched on the TV. They were doing a re-run of The Fellowship Of The Ring.

A good hour into the film, after a couple of glances towards his “visitor” it hit him.

He just carried a fucking dead body home.

He went into the kitchen and did what he did best. He drank himself to sleep.

 

\----

 

CHAPTER 2: The Difference Is That She Didn't Wake Up

“Twenty-four...” Gerard hit his head against the wall again.

He had drank seven bottles of beer in the past 4 hours, it was now 3:45, according to the digits on his cell phone.

The body was still laying on the couch, unmoving.

Gerard had not left him sprawled on the item of furniture, but had lied him down gently on his back, folding his hands across his chest. It reminded him of his grandmother, Elena.

Oh, Elena. She was Gerard’s sunshine. And as he was told many times while she was around, he was just as much to her.

She had taught him beauty and art and had helped him with his drawing, dancing and singing. No family love could advance theirs. But she was an old lady, and as all old ladies do eventually, she died.

Gerard hadn’t taken it lightly.

flashback time wooooo

“Can you sing it for me, sweetie, just one more time, from the top?”

Elena placed her delicate and withered fingers atop the white keys. Gerard smiled in fondness and delight.

“Of course, grandma!” he giggled.

He was perched atop the grand piano in Elena’s living room. They could remember the day they had saw it in the thrift furniture store.

\------

“Elena, It’s not going to fit! Your house is tiny!” Don had expressed, agitated. Elena only laughed and waved him off, beckoning for the “men in red polo shirts”, titled by a seven year old Gerard, to carry the instrument into the room, looking rather nervous.

The old lady sucked in the smoke of her cigarette, laughing croakily.

After having squeezed the grand piano behind Elena’s couch, the men had taken their pay and left hurriedly. The woman was determined, and Gerard’s utter inspiration.

“Come on, Gee, your play is tonight! You’ll want it to be fabulous, yes? Okay, one and two and-“

The eleven year-old sang, his sweet voice like a nightingale, but much more unique and raw.

Elena grinned and played the notes on the instrument that carried not only melodies, but memories.

\------

“Thank you, mom, you’ll be at Gerard’s play tonight at six, yes?” Donna asked her mother.

“Oh, absolutely, of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world, dear. Belleville Elementary, right?”

“That’s the one. Gee!”

Gerard came running from the kitchen, carrying two tubs of Elena’s spaghetti bolognaise she’d prepared the night before to give to her daughter, as she couldn’t eat it all herself. Gerard leaned up on his tippy-toes and planted a kiss on Elena’s soft and aged cheek.

“I love you, grandma, see you soon!”

“I can’t wait, honey!I love you too!”

Donna started the car and they drove off for young Gerard to get ready.

\------

Donna’s palms were getting sweaty, clasped together in her lap.

Elena hadn’t yet turned up.

Gerard was on stage already, halfway through the play and performing well, but Donna knew something was up. She knew her own son, and she could see in his eyes that he wanted to cry.  
Not because boys in his class who were in the audience were pointing and laughing at him, insensitive and listening not to his angelic voice. Everyone else was oblivious. Elena would never let her beloved grandson down.

Maybe she forgot the time? No, surely she’d have called Donna.

(Gerard’s POV)  
I crashed through the white-painted hardwood, my throat burning and bleeding from my screaming and howling, I was blind from white-hot tears stinging my eyes my forehead ached from my eyebrows knitting themselves together. My tongue grazed against my grinding teeth, my neck shaking from my angry growls. I clutched my head in my hands, sucking in gasps of breath. I kicked out at everything, probably breaking a few things. I strode over to my window and ripped the curtains from their pole, I tipped over my bedside table, sending comic books flying around the room like large and heavy and superhero-themed confetti.

(30 Minutes Earlier)  
Gerard and Donna arrived home, Donna sighed and pulled out a cigarette, her husband gave her a confused look, an eight year-old Mikey in his lap, which she returned with a “don’t ask” look.  
Gerard sat with his head in his hands, not thinking of anything. He wasn’t angry at his grandmother for not turning up, just confused. Elena was sincere, she wouldn’t lie.

There was a knock on the door.

Gerard leaped from his seat, his grumpy frown turning immediately into a giant grin. “Grandma!” he screamed, and sprinted to the door. Yanking it open, he was met with the sorrowful face of, not Elena, but a Policeman who clutched his copper cap in his pudgy hands. He regarded Gerard with kind eyes, filled with worry.

“H-hello, son, do you have a parent or guardian with ya?”

Gerard felt a poisonous lump in his throat.

“Mom. Someone’s here,” he said coldly and monotonously. Donna rushed in, seeing the policeman and forcefully ignoring his reason to be at the door.

“Yes? How can we help you?” she said, shakily.

“Mrs Way, I presume?”

“Yes, yes, go on!”

“Sorry.. yes, sorry.” He said nervously. “I’m afraid I have some news... you might wanna take the kid somewhere else.”

“No, I’m pretty sure whatever it is, Gerard has every right to hear it.” She replied

“Yes...well, I’m very sorry...” he trailed off, swallowing. He had been in the force for thirteen years and not once had he been the one to declare one of the many occurances in Belleville.

“earlier this evening your mother’s car was found crashed and turned over on the side of the road- I- I’m sorry, ma’am but your mother she- she was found in the wreck... d-dead.” he said apologetically as looked Donna Way straight in the eye.

Donna didn’t need to request that he repeat the words. Never in her life did she want to hear something like that again.

“Okay.” She said, patting the man on the shoulder and shut the door before he could open his mouth again.

She turned around to look at her son, but he was already crashing up the stairs.

She fell to the floor, curling up against the door.

No tears came. She couldn’t cry. It hadn’t hit her- Elena Lee Rush, her mother was- dead? It couldn’t be. Her heart ached though it wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of completely breaking.

She heard crashes upstairs in Gerard’s room. He needed to be alone.

(Gerard’s POV)  
I curled up on my side near a pile of laundry on the scratchy carpet of my bedroom floor. The tears still came, but my screams had muted me, my body too tired to destroy things anymore.  
I got up quickly, an idea coming to mind. My parents were in bed and were heavy sleepers. They wouldn’t hear me. I tip-toed down the kitchen and opened the fridge, staring unblinkingly at the red cans, the white-lettered logo printed across the putrid liquid.

I remembered the big kids in my school saying how beer made you feel good. I felt horrible. I snatched a can from the cold cupboard and pulled my jacket from the banister of the stairs, leaving.

\---

Donald found his son in the woods near their house, curled up under his yellow rainjacket, beer can crushed in his hand.

Eleven.

His eleven year old son had embraced self-destruction.

flashback time over wooooo

“Three-hundred and sixty-two” Gerard continued counting.

The body was still there.

Alcohol wasn’t sufficient right now, and he had no pills left. Hitting his head against his plaster walls and swimming in his tragic past wasn’t exactly helping, either. He picked himself up, balancing himself with his clammy palm against the wall. The drunkard trudged over to the TV, nudging it out of the way so he could sit adjacent to the body on his couch. He picked up blank and crumpled printed paper from under a mouldy noodle box. He had a pencil in the breast pocket of his rotten leather jacket.

Gerard began, for the first time in months, to draw the beautiful figure before him. Maybe he’d get dressed smart and have a private funeral for him? He smiled at the thought.

*

(Frank’s POV)  
I woke up.

No “light at the end of the tunnel” or some shit, nothing, I just woke up. How long had it been since I got punched in the dick? Why wasn’t I dead? Was I dead? Was this heaven?

I regarded the room around me, empty beer bottles, some full six packs near him, a cigarette pack, comic books?

It was heaven for me.

I sat up.

Fucking hell. Bad idea.

My bones creaked in their flesh shell. I put rested my dirt-clad hand to my head to rest upon my throbbing headache. It was crusty. I pulled my hand away, scrutinizing the red substance in the dents of my fingerprints. Woah, good job, those guys beat me up good.

I remembered everything, every feeling, every blow to the stomach and chest. The knifes, the vomit. The blood. So much blood. I should be dead. I remembered them running off, laughing gleefully and leaving me under a fuckin’ tree.

A tree.

Where was that tree? I was on.. a couch. Had they come back and taken me home? Doubt it. I was probably the lucky day for a necrophiliac who need a new toy.

Gross.

I shrugged it off, getting fucked by a creep while I was unconscious wasn’t exactly as bad as a near-death experience. Not me, one who suffered.

I cracked my bones and turned around groggily in the couch, leaning my chin against the armrest, my eyes were met with those of a young man, dressed smart, in a suit? He better not be some fucking FBI dude, I was not doing that shit today.

Waistcoat- nice.

“Hi” I smiled.

He was drawing something, I knew, from the grey strokes against white paper that fell to the ground as he jumped in shock. Man, he had pretty eyes. A pretty face, was “he” a “she”?

He didn’t say anything. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

I stopped smiling. Did I seriously say “Hi” to my potential... I don’t know.... captor? It’s not like I came here willingly.

Or unwillingly, I was unconscious, after all.

Why was I in here? What? Who was he?

I began to panic and sat up in my chair. He made no move to follow me, still frozen in place in the chair.

I was frozen, too, it seemed. He didn’t look harmful. Honestly, he looked like a fairy. My body was still confused, though, and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run. I had no idea where to go. I’d get killed again if I left.. wherever the hell I was.

“You’re alive!”

Huh. He talked.

Wait.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I blurted, still planted to the ground, my escape route outside the door to my left. I could leave right now. Why wasn’t I leaving? Why wasn’t he stopping me?

He huffed out a shocked laugh.

“You- you’re you-I-“ he spluttered. “You’re dead! You were dead! N-no pulse!”

I looked down at myself, I had bruises up and down my arms, hidden only slightly by my tattoos.  
If I was honest, I was just as confused as he.

A/N: I’m sorry for the shit ending of this chapter, I’ll try harder in the next one!


End file.
